Shades of Black and Blue
by Fina Arvanthol
Summary: Two young women dream of romance. One falls for a handsome prince; the other seduces a mighty warrior. Yet both remain dissatisfied with their lives - what can truly bring them happiness? FXF
1. Fantasies

Chapter 1: Fantasies

As the sun sank into the horizon, an orange and pink glow tinged the sky. The last buttery rays of the sunset were extending themselves above the hills, like sleepy children with raised arms, as if to say goodbye to the earth until the next day. Wispy clouds streaked the canvas, and as the night got progressively darker the stars began to twinkle in the distance. A soft breeze kept the air comfortably cool. Tree branches swayed gently. Crickets chirped a pleasant serenade. The world was at peace.

_Crash! _Except in a small wooden home, located in the southwestern district of a forested continent. There, a full-fledged ruckus was taking place. Pots and pans clanged against each other noisily in a steamy kitchen. Voices could be heard bellowing from upstairs. There was also the sound of water splashing and running feet. Dinner was being prepared, and it was a noisy occasion as usual.

Of course, the food was always worth the cacophony. Upon a rectangular table in the living room, a beauteous, three-foot, glazed fish rested on a silver platter, surrounded by bowls of white rice, vegetables, and noodles. Each seat had its own ivy-lined placemat, a thick, round plate, shiny silverware, and spotless glass. Nothing was beyond the inspection of the woman who had arranged it all. Her purple kerchief had given way to a few tangled bangs and her apron was smeared with grease, but after she wiped a bead of sweat from her brow she smiled. Everything was perfect. She shouted through the ceiling, "_Dinneeeeeeer!"_

Hurried steps rumbled down the stairs, accompanied by laughter and chattering. A small boy and two tall men promptly entered the kitchen and took their places at the table, breathing in the wafting scents of the cooked food. The little boy giggled with excitement, tugging on one of the men's shirt sleeves and pointing eagerly at the fish. The other man put his hands on his hips and admired the sight. "It looks fabulous, ChiChi!" He offered the woman a slightly lopsided grin. Chichi smiled in return.

"It's your favorite—roasted haddock in a butter garlic marinade. I've been basting it for nearly 3 hours now, so it should be nice and juicy. Of course, it didn't hurt that you happened to catch it earlier."

"Yeah, but that's the easy part. No fish raw tastes as good as one that's been under the broiler!" Goku (that was the man's name) smacked his lips and pulled his chair out. As he grabbed his fork and knife, he exclaimed, "Well, what are we all waiting for? Gohan, Goten—come on and dig in! Eat the fish while it's warm!"

The brothers didn't need to be told twice. Fast as lightning, they got in their chairs and started dueling for the best pieces of meat, jabbing each other with their forks. Goku had already gotten a substantial helping of fish onto his plate and was digging in gratuitously. Chichi sat at the head of the table, smiling sweetly at the scene of her happy family. Noisy and barbaric as they could be, she loved them. And, for the first time in years, they were together. _Finally, _ChiChi thought.

It had hardly been six months since the defeat of Majin Buu. For the umpteenth time, ChiChi witnessed as her husband, Son Goku, and his fellow Z warriors saved the Earth from devastation. She could hardly remember her own death – only that she had died and was eventually brought back to life. There had been horror at the prospect of either one of her babies dying, but somehow she managed to pull through, just as she had pulled through when Gohan had gone to Namek or fought Cell.

What she wasn't expecting following the battle was the return of her husband. Son Goku and she had been married for over two decades but had hardly been together for half of it. Goku was usually dead, training, eating, or sleeping. 'Twas the life of a warrior, she surmised. She fixed his meals, raised his children, cleaned his home… it was exactly what she had always wanted. Chichi's elbows slumped on the edge of the kitchen table as she gazed absent-mindedly at her gorging boys. Was it what she wanted?

She could recall carefree days as the princess of the Ox-King. Her father's kingdom was large and his subjects respected her. Most of the time, she wandered through the forests along the perimeter of the castle grounds. She liked to hunt small animals for game or collect interesting looking rocks, but her favorite thing to do was visit the storyteller.

The elderly woman lived secluded in a small cabin about a mile off from the Ox-King's castle. Her home was filled with all sorts of mysterious herbs and trinkets. ChiChi remembered how wary she had been the first time she had knocked on the door. A bough of wild corn and dried flowers had been shoved into her arms and the old witch had demanded, "Quick, bury these in the ground!"

"Why-?" ChiChi had started to ask, but the witch cut her off.

"Not time for questions! Just do it!"

So, ChiChi dug a hole in a soft plot of dirt using the tip of her boot, then dropped the corn and flora into it. When she had covered the plot back up with dirt, she realized the witch had gone back inside the house. She had left the door a smidgen open, so ChiChi decided to enter. Inside, a dense ruby fog had filled the room; it smelled of lavender and mint. While ChiChi could hardly see through the dense miasma, she could hear the old woman's voice muttering words in a foreign language. As ChiChi approached, she saw the crone had a cauldron bubbling. She had heard terrible things about witches from her nursemaids, but she was too curious to leave at this point.

"Welcome child," the witch cooed. "Welcome to my humble home of magic and whimsy. If I read the lines of your face correctly, you are the noble offspring of the local Ox-King, yes?"

Young ChiChi gasped. How did this woman know who she was? The crone chuckled.

"Don't be afraid, child. I know lots of things without asking. Part of it is magic; part of it's age." She offered ChiChi a wide, toothless grin. "Tell me something I don't know – what is your name?"

ChiChi reluctantly replied. The woman's grin broadened.

"ChiChi…It means milk, doesn't it? Sweet and warm. How suitable for a girl of your demeanor. What brings you to my abode, Lady ChiChi?"

ChiChi blushed. She rarely heard her name spoken. Most people simply referred to her as "Princess" or "Ox-King's daughter." She liked the gentleness with which the crone emphasized both _Chi_s. Drawn to her, ChiChi answered, "I am searching for my handsome prince."

"A prince?" the crone cackled. "And a handsome one no less? Well, you certainly found the opposite of that. Are you disappointed, dear?" The woman gave her a sly grin.

"No, not really." ChiChi shrugged. "I've been looking for a long time, but usually I don't find anything. I suppose an old witch is better than nothing at all."

The old woman chuckled. "You have a worthy attitude, my dear. Tell me, how old are you?"

"Eleven," ChiChi admitted shyly.

"Eleven and already on the prowl for true love!"

"My nana has told me lots of stories about princes," Chichi suddenly burst with excitement. She felt it was very easy to talk to the crone. "They are tall and _dashing _and they save beautiful girls in distress from dragons and evil wizards!"

"Oh? Is that so?"

"Yes! And at the end of every fairytale the prince marries the princess and they live happily ever after." ChiChi felt proud at how well versed she was in her folk stories.

The old witch nodded solemnly, but did not say anything for several long moments. Suddenly, she snapped her fingers and all the floating, magical fog disappeared. ChiChi could see the outline of the furniture and other articles of the room more distinctly now. In the corner, there was a rocking chair. The old woman beckoned ChiChi to it.

"Lady ChiChi," she murmured, "I am going to tell you a story that will even give your old nana a run for her gold pence. Listen carefully if you may."

So, ChiChi kneeled at the feet of the crone as she rehearsed a tale very similar to the ones she had heard before. A beautiful princess lived in a beautiful castle in a beautiful kingdom. All her subjects worshipped her and the king doted on her constantly. One day, however, a terrible dragon swept down upon the kingdom and snatched the princess right from her balcony window. The king and his subjects were in a state of terrible distress. A rally was held to urge all the knights of the castle to take their turn at fighting the beast. One by one, they went to the dragon's lair – and, one by one, they returned with broken bones, open wounds, and swollen bruises. Despondency fell upon the kingdom as it seemed no one would be able to save the princess fair.

But then one day, a knight from a visiting kingdom appeared. From head to toe, the knight was covered in glittering mail and armor. Before the king, the knight declared, "Upon my honor, your highness, I will retrieve your princess and slay the dragon beast." At this point, the king's hopes were all but lost. Casually, he granted the knight permission to enter the dragon's lair, but with little hope of even seeing the fighter again.

So, the foreigner entered the dragon's cove and discovered the imprisoned princess. The dragon was a ferocious monster, to say the least, but the knight was brave and determined. As the beast swung its scaly tail, the knight dodged. When the beast released a burst of hot flame from its mouth, the knight deftly rolled past it. When the beast roared, the knight wielded his shield against the thunderous waves. The battle was one of attrition, but as the knight waltzed around the dragon's attacks, the beasts grew more and more weary. Eventually, the dragon could not even stand on its own four claws and toppled to the ground, allowing the knight to drive a blade through its skull. The princess was finally saved!

Of course, the princess was instantly smitten with her rescuer and demanded the knight remove his helmet. While the prince protested at first, the princess's stubbornness eventually forced him to cave into her demands. Slowly, he lifted the helmet off with both hands—but when his face appeared it was revealed that the knight was not a he, but a she!

"What!" ChiChi suddenly interrupted the story. "That's not how it goes. A knight is always a boy and a princess is always a girl!"

The witch shook her head. "Not so! In this story, _both _the princes and the knight are female. And after the princess's surprise wears off, they both fall in love and get married. _And_," the witch grinned, "they live happily ever after."

"I have never heard such a silly story!" ChiChi protested, giving the crone a childish glare. She stood up and promptly exited the witch's dwelling, intending never to return to such a nonsensical place again.

But ChiChi did return—many times. Each time she returned, she had the old woman tell her a new story about the same princess and knight. Their adventures grew wilder over time, as the sailed the seas together and trekked deadly deserts and scaled towering mountains. And while ChiChi never shook the fantasy of falling in love with an indubitably masculine hero, neither did she shake the tempting fantasy of a daring knight-ess. She too couldn't help but notice that each time she returned to the crone's hut, a sapling was growing ever taller where she had planted the corn and the flowers. She wasn't entirely sure what kind of sapling it was, what fruit it would bear, or why the witch had wanted her to plant it, but she had a fondness for the little plant as it always reminded her of the witch's kindness to her.

Since she married Goku and gave birth to her two boys, the crone had passed away. The last time she saw her was shortly before the 23rd World Martial Arts Tournament. She remembered the crone being in a state of unusual grumpiness. She had told her no stories, failed to wish her luck at the competition, and sent her away early, claiming her joints were aching too badly for company. ChiChi often wondered if the crone's disappointment in her marrying Goku was the cause of her death. She knew the witch disapproved of the match since she had met him as a girl, but she never realized to what extent the crone felt spurned. She had always gone back once a year to honor the witch's grave (conveniently right next to the hut), to annually replace her gift of corn and dried flowers. She couldn't help but notice at these times that her sapling was now a tree, but not nearly as tall or green as it had promised to be in her youth.

_Clatter! _ChiChi was drawn out of her reverie as her boys noisily backed out of their chairs and dropped their silverware gruffly on their plates. "Thanks for dinner, ChiChi!" Goku waved his arm at her as they walked off. "We're off to wash up now."

"Huh?—oh, okay!" ChiChi said, a bit startled. She stared at the table now that everyone had finished eating. The beautiful fish she had spent hours tending to was now a pile of sad looking bones. Only tiny leaves of broccoli and grains of rice remained at the bottom of the bowls. The clean plates and silverware were covered with remnants of dinner, and the placemats needed a good rinsing. ChiChi sighed. She could hardly restrain her tears when Goku announced he would be home for good after Majin Buu's defeat. She would finally have the family she had always dreamed of having!

But somehow that dream faded as meal after long-prepared meal, she was left with mess to scrub and clean. The piles of smelly, sweat-soaked laundry never seemed to disappear, even as she spent all day soaking them and wringing them dry. The bathrooms were persistently messy. The vestibule floor always needed a mopping. And even after she and Goku made love at nights, all she could think about was his incessant snoring.

Was this the life she really imagined for herself? She had her rescuer, but where was the adventure, the passion, the long lasting bliss? And why was it those hard packed muscles and ripped abs of her lover no longer set her aflame? In fact, ChiChi began to wonder, did they ever truly ignite her? She buried her face in her hands—there were too many conflicting thoughts at once. She gave too much credence to the silly stories of a witch from her childhood. She was letting them infiltrate her reality.

Or perhaps she'd never given them credence enough.

_Chapter 2 to come_…

~Fina Arvanthol


	2. Carnal Pleasure

Chapter 2

"Ohhh… Unhh… Oh, Vegeta… More, please… _more…_"

Under a silky pile of dark violet sheets, Bulma moaned deep into the night. She eased her hips back, urging the Saiyan mounting her to continue his thrusting. He readily complied, grabbing one of her exposed breasts and squeezing it in his palm as he did so. Bulma felt his shaft fill her further and released another guttural moan. She could tell he was nearing his climax; she clenched her walls around him to finish the deed.

Vegeta's seed squirted inside of her, mixing easily with her own juices. He grunted with pleasure as he relaxed his hold on her. For a moment or so, he held himself inside her core, shuddering with pleasure, and then slowly withdrew. Once separated, both man and woman collapsed against the sheets, breathing heavily, covered in sweat.

Bulma knew Vegeta was asleep hardly in minutes. The stoic warrior had an insatiable sexual appetite that drained them both. They had been at it for nearly four hours now. He would sleep for another six, and then he would be up at the break of dawn to train. As for herself, she did not know when she would fall asleep or for how long. She knew she should be tired, but she could never fall peacefully asleep after lovemaking with Vegeta.

Instead, she always ended up lying awake for a half hour or so, reflecting on the sex, processing all the smells and touches and sensations. Sometimes she enjoyed it. Vegeta was not as selfish as some of her friends presumed; he would take his time to foreplay her. It was just… well, sometimes it wasn't _quite _as exciting as she hoped it would be.

She couldn't explain why either. Vegeta, after all, was a perfect specimen of the male physique. Hard, chiseled abs, sinewy biceps, a strong, squared jaw—what wasn't there to love about Vegeta's body? Not to mention he changed from surly to daring as soon as he was aroused. Any woman would be proud to say she had bedded the Saiyan prince.

Bulma had just noticed over time that the sex was less and less fulfilling. The first time, it had been incredible. The _danger _of it was thrilling. Vegeta was the ultimate antihero; he had the potential to snap back into a villain's role at any moment. He was bad boy to the max, dark, mysterious, altogether captivating. When he wrapped his arms around her, Bulma felt so possessed with pleasure, she could hardly speak. She liked that tingling sense of weakness. She liked having someone dictate the joys of her body.

She had to wonder though… it had been the exact same thing with Yamcha. She had become infatuated with him because he was a rebel. He was the wild desert boy, with a mane of long, black, untamed hair, a motorcycle that cut through dust like a knife in a stick of butter, and a devilish grin that threatened to make her heart pound right out of her chest. Her first time had been with him, and the sex was great. Lots of deep French kisses and heavy petting. She remembered sucking him off quickly and then being penetrated for a short time. It was warm, and she liked that.

But neither Vegeta nor Yamcha had managed to retain her interest for very long. Sure, she stuck with them out of friendship and an interest in not being alone. Bulma didn't mind being partnered with them. They just never _captivated _her. When Bulma imagined romance, she figured falling so in love with someone she wouldn't be able to get them out of her head for weeks, months, maybe even years. She imagined it would be more than a one-night thrill, where each consecutive lay was less and less fulfilling. Love shouldn't be the spark of a match and a quickly burned thumb!

Part of her wondered if maybe she had created unrealistic expectations for herself. Her entire adolescence was dedicated to finding _the perfect _boyfriend. She had regularly made mental checklists of all the qualities that perfect boyfriend would have too. The problem though wasn't that her boyfriends were missing too many checks. When she reflected on her relationships with Vegeta and Yamcha, they had cleared them all! Committed, loving, honest (Vegeta was that to a fault), handsome… Even if her expectations were unrealistic, she was lucky enough to have snatched the boys that achieved them.

She wondered too if maybe humans just weren't wired for this monogamy stuff. Perhaps romance was just some silly social construction, and she had fooled herself into believing the lie. Screw flowers and chocolate! How could anyone consider themselves whole by devoting themselves to just _one _other person? Of course, every time she suggested that to herself, she cringed. Even if monogamy or romance or love were lies, they were beautiful, intriguing ones that she wasn't yet willing to sacrifice.

Besides, some people were quite happy with the same person for years and years. Her parents were one example she grudgingly acknowledged. Chichi and Son Goku had been together for over two decades. Since Cell, Krillin and 18 had maintained a fairly steady relationship. Monogamy didn't have to be long term either, she supposed—just so long as you are faithful to the person you are with presently. And who said touching couldn't be romantic anyway?

She softly reminisced of working in her lab late the other night. Just rewiring some fried circuits for a new GPS chip. (She was planning to secretly install it in Vegeta's flesh so she wouldn't have to worry about where he was at all the time.) When she had looked up at the clock, she was surprised to see it was already nearing midnight. Sometimes she became so consumed in her work that she lost track of the time.

Pulling on her lab coat and grabbing her purse, Bulma had gone to turn out the lights when she heard muffled sounds from the adjacent supply room. Wondering if perhaps one of her father's animals had slipped in by accident, Bulma peeked through the door ajar. Instead of a stray kitty, however, she had discovered two junior researchers engaged in some intense snogging, half prostrated on one of the work tables, humping each other madly through their lab coats. Bulma's eyes widened in shock, and she turned away blushing profusely. Since that day, she had continually chastised herself for glancing back for a longer look.

The researchers were two of her most prized underlings: Suika, a budding graduate student at the local university, and Ume, an apprentice technician. Both were in their mid-twenties, occasionally too giggly, and definitely two of the most skilled junior assistants she had ever known. She identified her younger self with them and was grateful for their presence in the lab. She had always noticed they got along rather well, but she never realized that there was something romantic between them!

Bulma sighed. She remembered the way Ume raised her knee over the back of Suika's thigh, threading her hands through Suika's dark, silky hair. Suika had her hands up Ume's blouse, clearly teasing the flesh underneath, and had been dueling her companion with her tongue. Their crotches had been pressed so close together, Bulma swore she could have felt the heat in her own. They were panting and moaning and sweating and gyrating and…

Bulma shook her head suddenly. She was doing it again! Ever since she saw those two kissing in the lab (which was totally insubordinate, she flustered), she kept replaying the incident in her mind. Each time, she felt that delightful warmth spread itself to the apex of her thighs and trigger her nectar. She wondered what it would be like to have one of those nubile young things teach her all the new sex crazes. She wondered if roleplaying was still popular.

_Damn it! _She thought. _Again! _She squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to think of Vegeta in a sexy thong. _Ripped muscles, ripped muscles, ripped muscles, _she muttered to her brain. As she waited for the hunk of man to visualize himself in her brain, Vegeta's thong turned out to be banana yellow. Paired with the Saiyan's scowling face, Bulma could hardly control her giggles. She felt Vegeta kick her to be quiet and settled down. The room was so dark; she continued to stare up at the ceiling. A bronze, bathing beauty with ripe cantaloupes and a sultry smile swayed into her mind; she realized she was back at square one.

Quietly and swiftly, so as not to disturb Vegeta, Bulma's hand ducked underneath the sheets. She knew this was the only way she could finally placate her shameless thoughts and get to sleep.

_Chapter 3 to come…_

~Fina Arvanthol


	3. Kitchen Flirting

Chapter 3: Kitchen Flirting

Streamers in vibrant hues of purple, blue, green, and gold spiraled from one end of the Capsule Corp dome to the next; the crepe paper vines curled around each other in a festive dance. Balloons hovered like clouds at the top of the dome and, below, banquet tables towered with scrumptious hors devourers: steaming dumplings, cucumber sandwiches, spring rolls, and plates of freshly sliced starfruit and watermelon. Only a thick headed brute with the mental capacity of an acorn would be dumb to the obvious party preparations underway.

Indeed, a celebration of the grandest kind was taking place at the Briefs' home that day. With the defeat of Majin Buu and the world at peace, it simply felt right to light a festive spark in the Z warriors' lives. Mrs. Briefs, of course, was in charge of the party planning. For weeks, she had debated over table cloth trims and confetti shapes, napkin folds and flourishes in décor. She personally selected the drinks and hand-sealed each of the invitation's ivy-bordered envelopes. She was on the prowl for professional musicians when Dr. Briefs gently reminded her, "It is only a barbecue, dear."

That didn't stop the scientist from obsessing over the acoustics of the dome. In his spare time, he fancied himself a sound engineer and felt more than qualified to ensure the perfect balance of treble and bass for the party. After setting up an enormous stereo system, with towers that could dwarf even Piccolo, he clapped his hands and said, "Now, we'll have a party!"

Everywhere that summer day, CC robots were zooming back and forth across lawn and labs to assist in putting up decorations. Dr. Briefs' animals were more excited than usual, evident from their frequent meowing, barking, hooting, hollering, and roaring. And, despite the giant wall that bordered the Capsule Corporation grounds, onlookers paused at the gate to sneak a peek at all the activity.

During the commotion, Bulma was upstairs in her bathroom trying on different outfits. Nearly a dozen dresses from her closet were lying on the bathroom tile. Earlier, she was positive these outfits would be dazzling, but as soon as she zipped and buttoned herself in one frock, she just as quickly zipped and unbuttoned herself out of it. Nothing seemed right, no matter how she posed, and Bulma was the kind of woman who needed to feel like she was dressed to the nines to fully enjoy a party.

Besides, she hadn't gotten to dress up in quite some time. She pondered over this as she held up a cherry-print dress to her figure. When she had gotten that hideous perm hacked, she had enjoyed a brief makeover period: red dresses, heels, lipstick. That was mostly for herself, though. Today was the chance to show off her fabulous self to guests, and she wanted to turn some heads!

A spring halter dress eventually called her name, with its soft pastel brushstrokes and satin hem. A pair of white sandals and glittery bangles gave the outfit some panache. Bulma couldn't help but give herself a grin in the mirror. She looked damn fine and she knew it.

"Hmph. What are you getting all dressed up for, woman?"

Bulma knew that deep, guttural voice from a mile away. How many times had Vegeta crept up from behind her and surprised her with it? He had a loathsome talent for sneaking up on people. Luckily, it had happened so many times at this point, Bulma was no longer surprised.

"Psh! Like you've forgotten! Today's the big party," Bulma said.

"And?" Vegeta growled.

"I want to look my best. Is that such a crime?"

"For who? Only those idiots will be showing up," Vegeta snorted in return, cocking his eyebrow at her and leaning on the arch of the bathroom doorway.

"For your information, those idiots are my friends. I haven't seen them in a while and I just feel like looking good. Besides, it's been such a long time since I've felt pretty. You wouldn't understand, what with your Saiyan manly-manliness."

Vegeta muttered something incoherent, but Bulma didn't bother to ask him to repeat himself. She was too occupied in the mirror, adding a touch of mascara to her eyelashes. She leaned forward on the bathroom sink and continued her careful application. Vegeta grunted louder.

"What?" Bulma huffed, turning to give him an annoyed look. "I can't hear you when you talk under your breath like that. Speak up if you have something to say."

After a pause, Vegeta growled, "I said, you look nice."

Compliments were rare from the Saiyan Prince. He was so obsessed with himself, it was a wonder he ever left his mirror. Bulma did, however, notice that when Vegeta praise omeone, it was usually her. Even if his compliments didn't fill her with joy, Bulma still accepted them graciously.

"Thanks," she smiled, glancing herself over in the mirror. "I'd have to say I agree with you. I was worried earlier that the halter top might be a bit too tight in the strap, but as it turns out it fits beautifully. So, is that all you'll be wearing?"

Bulma motioned to Vegeta, who was in a pair of dark slacks and an equally dark, long-sleeved shirt. His arms were crossed over his chest in a surly manner. He barely nodded in response.

"Well, I would have to say you look nice too," Bulma said, turning away from the bathroom sink. "Black suits you, y'know?" She winked at him.

"The harpy will be here." It was more of a question than a statement, but Bulma knew what it meant.

"Yes, ChiChi is coming, and, yes, that means Goku is coming as well," she sighed.

"Excellent." A smirk found its place on Vegeta's lips. A spar was already in the works.

"Alright, well go start planning your dueling tactics elsewhere," Bulma said. "I need to finish getting ready and I can't have you crowding my vanity space."

Vegeta merely _hmphed_. He turned around to leave, but before he was officially gone, he grabbed Bulma by the chin and gave her a quick, rough kiss. Stunned, all Bulma could do for a few moments was watch his retreating form. She touched her lips, waiting for a familiar tingling sensation to appear, a rush of warmth, a pleasant feeling, anything.

Nothing. And a deep pain settled in her heart.

* * *

The party was well underway by two o' clock in the afternoon. Piccolo was lounging in the rose beds, Roshi and Oolong were scavenging the food tables, and Gohan and Videl were secretly giggling behind one of Dr. Briefs' prized indoor oaks. Mrs. Briefs was rushing from one person to the next, thrusting around her serving tray, in what appeared to be an attempt at "World's Most Gracious Hostess." Dr. Briefs was not too subtly ushering people over to his stereo system so he could lecture on its features, and Vegeta had parked himself on a picnic blanket after gathering seven or eight plates of food.

Goku, naturally, was late. Krillin had been a bit disappointed, but after Yamcha noted how much more food that left the rest of them, the party carried on quite nicely for everyone. That is, everyone except for ChiChi. From the moment she had arrived, Goku's wife had been fuming.

"Ridiculously irresponsible," she muttered over her wineglass.

"Neglecting his family again," she barked by the poolside.

"I guess it's easy to forget manners after being dead for _seven _years," she sneered on the lawn.

Everyone else managed to tolerate Goku's tardiness, but Bulma could see why it would irritate ChiChi so much. Nearly a decade of raising his children without so much as a good-bye or an "I love you"? If she had been in ChiChi's place, Bulma would have been just as annoyed.

So, the Capsule Corp heiress felt the only right thing to do was invite ChiChi into the kitchen for a chat. The Ox-Princess had been skeptical at first, since she and Bulma rarely had "tête-à-tête," but after being informed an unopened box of Franzia was sitting in the fridge, she welcomed the invitation.

"Cheap, but it gets the job done, right?" ChiChi grinned over her glass.

"No kidding," Bulma laughed. "I lived on this stuff in college. Everybody else was drinking beer, but I was a total wino. Saturdays wouldn't have been the same without Fran."

"Huh. I would have assumed, given how rich your family is, that you would have been served champagne on a silver platter in an ivory tower," ChiChi smirked.

"Ha! I wish! Mommy and Daddy didn't pay a dime on my tuition. Granted, I had a bigger safety net, but I worked my ass off like everybody else." Bulma sipped from her glass with a clear sense of pride.

"What did you major in again?"

"Computer science and engineering."

"Kami, you're mad."

"Haha, maybe. Is that why I've been with Vegeta for so long?"

"I'd say so!" ChiChi giggled over her glass. "Even if you were sane before, you eventually would have gone mad with him around."

Bulma laughed too, noticing as she did how ChiChi's breasts rose under the fabric of her blouse when she giggled. ChiChi was never exactly a "stylish" dresser, but that didn't mean she wasn't pretty. In fact, Bulma kind of liked the housewife's homespun dresses and colorful kerchiefs. Rather than seeming dowdy, they gave her a simple, traditional kind of beauty. Not to mention, she had those gorgeous black tresses, shining like purple midnight skies in the lamplight, those dark pools of chocolate syrup for eyes, those soft, creamy arms…

Bulma shook her head. Was the Franzia already getting to her head? She didn't feel tipsy or buzzed. Not even a quarter of her glass was gone yet. Usually if she was getting drunk, she could feel her head lightening and her balance wavering. She shifted in her chair slightly and didn't notice a thing. But if she was sober, what was she thinking?

She looked up to discover ChiChi staring at her curiously. Bulma blushed. Had she noticed her staring? The Capsule Corp heiress rushed to save herself.

"I love your new blouse, ChiChi. Where'd you get it?" She took another drink from her glass to avoid making eye contact.

"Hmm… this? It's so old, I don't even remember. Probably at a garage sale or something," ChiChi laughed awkwardly. "We really don't have enough money for nice clothes."

"I think you look beautiful in everything you wear," Bulma blurted.

At that moment, it was harder to tell whether Bulma or ChiChi's face turned redder. Both were quite a darkened shade of fuchsia. Bulma stared down at her wine glass smiling stupidly, while ChiChi took unusual interest in the magnets on the refrigerator. As if things couldn't get any more awkward, both jumped to start the conversation again at the same time.

"Why, thanks! I wish Goku said it more often—"

"Of course, I meant it in a purely platonic way—"

"Oh, I know you did! What else could you have meant?—"

"You mean Goku doesn't compliment you? That oaf-"

"Friends are for what husbands aren't, right?"

They both stared laughing nervously. The conversation could not have become more unbearable, and all the Franzia in the world wasn't going to improve the situation in the slightest. Suddenly, ChiChi grabbed Bulma's wrist and they both went silent.

Gazing deep into her cerulean eyes, ChiChi told Bulma, "If anyone is beautiful, it is you."

Before Bulma could muster a response, Krillin, Dende, and Piccolo had entered the room. While ChiChi pulled away before any of the boys could take notice, Bulma's heart was left pounding uncontrollably. She could only wonder, had they not been interrupted, what exchange would have followed between them?

_Chapter 4 to come… _

~Fina Arvanthol


	4. Unsettling News

Chapter 4: Unsettling News

"Hey, Bulma! Hey, Chichi!" Krillin waved cheerfully at the two before sticking his bald head in the fridge. "What's to eat?"

"Krillin, what are you doing in there? My parents spent forever preparing food for the party. You can't tell me all the buffet tables are empty!" said Bulma, grateful her friend was unaware that ChiChi had been grasping her wrist a moment ago. She could still feel the warmth of her fingertips tingling on her skin. Bulma glanced up at her to find her looking pointedly in another direction.

"Hate to break it to you, Blue," Krillin said, "but Goku arrived just a while ago. He and Vegeta have been wiping out the party trays like starved hyenas. They're either revving up for a match or determining who can gorge the most coleslaw in under a quarter of an hour." He gave her a wry grin.

"Oh! Goku decided to show up, DID he?" ChiChi crossed her arms and sneered as she rose from her chair. "How nice of him to send you, Krillin, so we could all know of his arrival."

"What do you mean?" Krillin's voice trailed off, though, as ChiChi stormed out of the kitchen. Bulma's eyes followed her, gazing at her swaying hips until they were out of sight. She wondered what ChiChi would say when she confronted her tardy husband and halfway hoped her irritation would induce her to forget what happened between them. Or at least, all the bits where Bulma made a fool of herself.

In an attempt to distract herself from her thoughts, Bulma turned around to see what so many new people were doing in her kitchen. Krillin had discovered some tasty-looking leftovers and was hauling tupperware out of the fridge, while Piccolo and Dende stood muttering in the corner of the counter islands. They were talking in a foreign language, but Bulma could tell they were arguing over something.

"And what are you two discussing over there?" she said.

"None of your concern," Piccolo grunted.

"Excuse me?" Bulma arched an eyebrow at the Namekian.

"Erm, what Piccolo means to say is that it's rather a sensitive subject matter," Dende said, hoping to create finesse where there had been none.

"Sensitive subject matter?" Bulma gave the Nameks another strange look. "Whaddaya mean?"

Piccolo glared at Dende, who wrung his hands anxiously.

"Well, I can't easily say." Dende looked at Bulma with a plea in his eyes, as if he were wordlessly trying to convey, "Don't ask me more. It would be awkward for both of us."

Bulma was too shook up from earlier to care. She sashayed over to the counter and crouched over to meet Piccolo and Dende eye-to-eye.

"Come on, boys. You know I can keep a secret," she said, winking.

"Are you deaf, woman?" Piccolo growled. "We can't tell you and we're not telling you. We're having a PRIVATE conversation."

"Seems a PARTY is a pretty crummy place to have a PRIVATE conversation," Bulma said. "Especially in front of your hostess. Besides, ChiChi and I were in the kitchen here before you two. Why'd you even come in if you needed privacy to talk?"

"Actually, Bulma, we came in because we ARE planning on telling you... some of it." Piccolo growled as Dende continued. "We were just debating how much exactly to say."

Krillin, who had finished microwaving a plate of leftover Chinese takeout, sat on the counter and joined the conversation.

"Hey, if you're all going to be sharing secrets, I want in on the juice too," he said, tipping his chopsticks in their direction.

"This is not idle gossip!" Piccolo barked. He turned to Dende and scolded him. "I told you this was not to be discussed until we returned to Kami's Tower. Your inexperience belies you again. Now, human tongues will be quick to wagger."

Dende took a deep breath and replied, "These are not typical Earthlings, Piccolo, and you should know that by now. As Guardian of the Earth, I do wish to share this... unsettling news with them. I believe they may be able to help us—Bulma in particular. I had simply come to you hoping your experience would help me find the smoothest possible way of conveying the matter."

"It is foolish," Piccolo grunted.

"It is my decision, and it is final." Dende turned away and gave a strained smile to Bulma and Krillin. "I do not want to be a party crasher, but there isn't likely to be a more opportune time in the future where all the Z warriors are gathered."

"Oh boy," Krillin gulped. "This is already sounding bad. Can't the Earth stay safe for more than five minutes at a time?"

"Chaos is the natural order of the universe," Dende smiled sadly, "paradoxical though it may be."

"What's up, Dende?" Bulma asked, feeling increasingly concerned. She wished it were only this troubling bit of news that was disconcerting her, but she also couldn't help wondering where ChiChi was now, what she was doing, and when they would talk again. Of course, Piccolo's glare reminded her to stay focused.

"Well, you might want to sit down and brace yourself for this piece of news," Dende said. "It's not exactly an easy pill to swallow. If my suspicions are accurate, we are indeed in grave danger."

"Stop dancing around the point and tell them if you're going to tell them," Piccolo barked.

"Yeah, Dende, you're starting to freak me out," Krillin added. "What's going on?"

Dende took a deep breath. "Alright. This is going to come across as rather blunt, since there really is no nice way going about it. Try to take the news as best as you can.'

'As you all know, over a decade ago we were faced with the prospect of universal imperialism. Frieza was lord of all the galaxies, and he was intent on attaining eternal life with a wish from the Namekian Dragonballs. He killed thousands of people in his conquest, and millions of others were enslaved and stripped of their political freedoms. The Guardians of the Universe were forbidden from intervening by cosmic force, and so the situation only worsened over time. Luckily, as you all know, Goku was able to end Frieza's rampage on Namek, and Trunks neatly ensured his demise when he returned to Earth.'

'What I didn't realize until very recently is that someone has been trying to… well, someone has been trying to revive Frieza since then."

"WHAT!" Both Bulma and Krillin jumped from their seats, jaws agape. Bulma could feel her heart start racing uncontrollably. _Someone was trying to revive Frieza?_ Her thoughts were soon replaced by vocal outrage.

"What do you mean someone is trying to revive Frieza?"

"How did you find out about this?" Krillin chimed in.

"Are they trying to locate the Dragonballs?"

"I thought we managed to defeat all their ilk!"

"Do they know he was killed on Earth?"

"Do they know _we _killed him?"

Piccolo rolled his eyes, giving Dende a look that clearly showed he had predicted this would happen and Dende would have to fish himself out of the water. Dende shut his eyes and took a deep breath, before raising his hands to calm the two humans.

"I know it is a shocking bit of news," he acknowledged.

"Damn right it's shocking!" Krillin exclaimed.

"But we have to maintain our composure!" Dende asserted. "Flying into a panic will do us no good. You all should know that!"

"Okay, fair enough," Bulma said, her voice strained. "But Dende, you have to be straightforward with us. Who is it that's trying to revive Frieza?"

Dende looked Bulma squarely in the eye. "His mother."

"Frieza has a mother?" Krillin yelped, giving voice to Bulma's thoughts.

"Yes," Dende said, nodding his head. "She works behind the scenes mostly, but she's there. She's always kept track on the progress of her husband and their two sons."

"Unbelievable!" Krillin said.

"But, wait," Bulma interjected. "Why is she a threat all of a sudden? Frieza has been dead for years. So has King Cold. And Cooler! If she were all concerned about her boys, wouldn't she have been addressing the problem, like, ten years ago?"

"Not quite," Dende replied. "You all may not realize this, since the Earth is relatively distant from other populated parts of the universe, but chaos ensued with the collapse of Frieza's empire. Hundreds, if not thousands, of gangs were formed, and they all fought for their own share of the open galaxy. Figuratively speaking, it was the first day of hunting season for all the greedy mongrels of the universe. The consolidation of total power in one despot's hands split into many oppressors'. Some lands have been lucky enough to reconstruct and restore peace, but even then they must battle against the factions trying to subsume them.'

'Frieza's mother was forced to flee as a political refugee when word spread of her son's demise. After all, which of her attendees seriously was going to stay and defend the remnants of a fallen empire? Half of them had been forced into slavery and this was their slice of a chance at freedom. If they didn't flee, they were going to kill her in order to prevent any possibility of the Ice-jinn throne's revival."

"So, where did she go?" Bulma asked.

"An excellent question." Dende furrowed his brow. "I'm really not sure myself. While I certainly have a high level of awareness as the guardian of this planet, my understanding of events in other parts of the universe is still quite limited. Based on the snippets of information I've received, I speculate that for several years she was simply in hiding. She may have disguised herself as a commoner or simply found an underground unit for cover.'

'What is more clear is that she is back in the picture now. An Ice-jinn spacecraft has clearly been detected by another Guardian, and it's moving at a rapid pace in a nearby galaxy. The ship is apparently making a course for Namek, which—as you know—is home to the original Dragonballs."

"But the Namekians have hardly had a chance to enjoy their rebuilt home!" Krillin cried.

"Clearly, it's not of importance to Frieza's mother," Dende said.

"How do you know for sure, though, that the Dragonballs are what she's after?" Bulma asked. "After all, how does she even know what the Dragonballs are? Did Frieza ever communicate to her that the Dragonballs were his reason for being on Namek? I mean, this isn't anymore reassuring, but couldn't she just be heading there for revenge?"

"The reason I think not is because Frieza's mother is not nearly as powerful as her male kin," Dende replied. "She is rumored to be a brilliant tactician and a psychological expert, but she lacks physical strength. That is why she depended so much on her sons and her husband to exert violent control over the kingdom. That also is why she hasn't risen to power herself yet and taken control of the many warlords battling over territory. It's my guess she's been waiting for the right moment to strike. She could have stolen this ship and is trying to be discrete in her plans to revive her son. She probably wants the element of surprise on her side."

"So how does she know about the Dragonballs then?" Krillin asked. "They're not exactly well-advertised. Even on Earth, only a few of us know about them."

"It's true that even with Frieza's demise, the Dragonballs remain a well-protected secret," Dende said. "Part of their magic is that they are so unknown. Frieza's mission to Namek was no secret, though, and records were made of his mission via those military scouters.'

'Frieza had been on the prowl for immortality long before he knew about the Dragonballs—which is why his scientific support team was so quick to repair his broken form with cybernetic limbs after his battle with Goku. For years, they had been researching an assignment focused on extending Frieza's lifespan. The problem was no amount of scientific research would ever compare to the divine magic of the Dragonballs.'

'The likelihood that knowledge of the existence of the Dragonballs has spread throughout the galaxy and reached Frieza's mother's ears through mere chit chat is highly unlikely. She must still have access to private records or communication devices. She certainly supported her son in his quest for eternal youth, so it's no surprise that she's researched on her own to find a way to bring him back."

Piccolo, Dende, Bulma, and Krillin all remained silent for a time. The new information was unsettling, to say the least. There was no way to easily digest it. Bulma had a million questions. It seemed only a matter of a time, though, before she asked the one that had been lingering in her head since Dende had opened up to them.

"Dende, how _did _you find out about all this exactly?"

With a side glance at Piccolo, Dende only reluctantly replied. "That's where I'm afraid I can't share anymore information with you, Bulma Briefs. How I obtain my information as Guardian of the Earth must remain confidential. I must humbly request that you trust me."

Bulma and Krillin looked at each other and shared a sigh. They should have known.

The blue-scientist gave the Earth's Guardian a weary look and asked a different question: "So now what do we do?"

_Chapter 5 to come..._

~Fina Arvanthol_  
_


	5. Insults

Chapter 5

Dende and Piccolo shared another glance, before the younger Namek turned to Bulma and said, "Well… that's what we were going to ask _you._"

Bulma knew it was pretty ludicrous for her to expect them to have a plan formulated. After all, this wasn't one of those "Move in and take 'em down!" supervillain faceoffs. Bulma couldn't even chuckle at the idea of taking the issue to Vegeta or one of the Z warriors. What would they do? Fling a giant missive of ki at the galaxy and hope it hit the right spot?

Coming to her, though? What could she do? Dende was the one with all the top-secret, godly information. He had a brain between his two green ears. Why couldn't he figure out the plan for himself?

Dende did not leave Bulma wondering to herself for long. He seemed to have read her thoughts and spoke up immediately.

"Communication among the divine does not ever guarantee a solution to the problems discussed," he said. "No one is so holy as to have all the answers. We simply have different means of passing information along, and on a greater scale. My problem solving skills, however, are no keener than yours."

"So, why come to me specifically?" Bulma asked.

"Hey—yeah! Why Bulma? You think _she's _gonna save the Earth?" Krillin piped in.

"Excuse me?" Bulma arched her eyebrow in the bald monk's direction.

"Bulma is exceptionally intelligent," Dende quickly intervened. "And this is a _potential _problem. Remember, Frieza is not revived yet…"

"What about Frieza?"

Goku looked bewildered as he and Vegeta appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. Both of them were covered in dirt and grime, which could only mean they had been sparring over the last chicken drumstick. And that could only mean they were in the kitchen for more food. Only the mention of one of their worst nemeses could stall their trek to the fridge.

"Ah, well… So much for being discrete I suppose," Dende rubbed the back of his head, smiling nervously at Piccolo.

Not amused, Piccolo barked at the two Saiyans, "Word in the galaxy is your pasty reptile friend has got a bitch for a mother, and she's eager to have the pick of her litter back in her arms. She's apparently emerged from whatever crack in the universe she's been festering in and is trying to find a way to revive Frieza."

Goku blinked. He paused a moment before saying, "So?"

Dende's jaw nearly hit the floor. Krillin choked on a chow mein noodle he'd been slurping. Piccolo could only stare in utter disbelief. Goku could be pretty thick sometimes, but even this was stretching the limit. Didn't he remember the excruciating battle that waged between him and the Ice-jinn tyrant on Namek? Surely, in all his years of fighting, he had retained enough brain cells to be even slightly afraid of his deadly foe?

Then again, Bulma thought, the first time Goku had been warned of Frieza's formidable power, he had been thrilled. His Saiyan blood flowed with excitement at the prospect of a challenging fight. He always wanted to battle against stronger opponents. Was this just him hoping for another fight?

"Well, we're all a lot stronger now," he said. "In the time that Frieza has been dead, we've taken care of the androids, Cell, Dabura, Majin Buu… We're all definitely as powerful as Trunks was when he travelled back in time and destroyed Frieza. So, what's there to worry about?"

"Huh… that's a good point…" Krillin said. "I hadn't really thought of that…"

"Idiots!"

Only one sulky antihero could spew an insult with such ease and sincerity. Vegeta, who had turned deathly pale when Piccolo announced the news, was now unequivocally glaring at Goku. Arms folded over his chest, he crossed the threshold into the light of the room so he could stand before his longtime rival and shout directly in face.

"Once again, Kakarott, only you could achieve such an astonishing display of ignorance," he rasped. "As if the Empress would honestly return her son to the weak state in which he was killed. Do you even know by what means she's trying to revive him? If she's after the Dragonballs, how do you know she won't wish for his immortality? Or omnipotence? You're as thick as ever, you imbecile. And you!"

Vegeta redirected his wrath at Piccolo. "How did _you _come across this information, Namek?"

"Back off, Saiyan," Piccolo warned. "I'm not in the mood for a fight today. Dende, as Guardian of Earth, received the information through his divinity."

"Oh? His _divinity?_" Vegeta sneered, turning toward the Namek. "Well, how come his _divinity _can't just set the world straight and stop fucking everyone over all the goddamn fucking time?"

"I was explaining that shortly before you arrived, Vegeta," Dende said calmly. "Rational creatures, if they can be called that, always assume that deities have the power to turn the universe into a blank canvas and paint a pretty picture there."

"Yeah, call us 'irrational,' but isn't that your job? To maintain order and cast judgment and whatnot?" Krillin said.

"Deities are nothing more than reporters of the universe!" Dende finally shouted. "I can create Dragonballs. I can communicate with other Guardians. I can transport you to other worlds and ages. But I do not have the power to judge any one being, and my understanding of the afterlife is limited, at best. Divinity is merely a calling to observe and reflect, to offer guidance. The order of the universe and the impact of creatures' choices upon it are still beyond my control."

"So why even have a Guardian?" Vegeta snorted.

"So that when information like this does come my way," Dende replied, in an exasperated voice, "you have a chance to defend yourselves. A certain amount of luck is dealt in the fate of a universe, but a great deal more is chalked up to choice. And you will all certainly have to make yours. Ignore my words if you wish, or waste time blaming me instead of making efforts to addressing these evils yourselves. It will make no difference. Frieza's mother is searching for a way to bring him back, and if he does return to life, he will be far more powerful than ever. As Vegeta correctly said, he will likely be turned immortal – and who knows what then…"

"There's still one thing I can't get over," Krillin said, a noodle hanging limply from his mouth.

"Yes, Krillin?" Dende took a deep breath and patted his robes.

"You think _Bulma _can figure all this out?" he snorted.

"Bulma!" Goku shouted.

"The _woman!_" Vegeta exclaimed in disgust.

"Oh. My. Kami! Krillin, I _fucking _hate you!" Bulma was ready to brandish a nearby barbecue fork and shove it down her bald companion's throat when, surprisingly, Piccolo grabbed her wrist.

"Ignore these fools," he growled. "While I don't like to admit it, you are somewhat less of one than they and Dende is correct, in my opinion, in asking for your help."

"Oh yes, send the woman after Frieza's mother. Perhaps she can talk her to death," Vegeta sneered, shifting his weight from one side to the next. "Or maybe she can convince her that all she really needs is a makeover. God knows she gets enough of them when _she's _having a bad day."

Both Goku and Krillin snickered, and Bulma glared at them, then chose to ignore them.

"Piccolo, I thought you didn't want me in on all of this," she said.

"I said our conversation was private," Piccolo replied. "I thought we should have waited to invite you – and _only you_ – to Kami's Tower after we had discussed what information would be most pertinent to you, rather than announcing the news over the P.R. at this party." Piccolo gave Dende a pointed look, which the young green Guardian ignored. "What we did agree on was that you might be of help in this predicament."

"Oh," Bulma said dumbly. She felt ridiculous, but all she could think to say was what she said next. "Well, I have no idea what to do. Should we just wait to see when she shows up and hope for the best?"

"Wait and _see? _You think this baka is going to know how to handle this better than the rest of us?" Vegeta barked at Dende. "She can barely pick what color to put on her nails, never mind save our asses. I can't imagine what you are thinking by putting this responsibility on _her_."

"Yeah, no offense Dende, but Bulma's just not good at that type of stuff," Goku interjected, who by now had shuffled his way through a good deal of the fridge. "That's why we usually take care of this kind of stuff."

"Uh, hello!" Bulma waved her hands in the air. "I'm still standing here. But don't let that keep you from insulting me!"

"Nobody's trying to be _insulting_, Bulma," Krillin said pleadingly. "It's just that… well, you really are more of the sidelines kind of gal. Everybody's got their place to excel, right?"

Before Bulma could even reply, Vegeta interrupted and stated plainly, "Yes, and while hers should be in the kitchen, she can't even succeed here. The only place the woman excels is in the dressing room or her toy room."

Bulma's last reserve of patience expended. Turning on Vegeta, she exploded with wrath.

_To be continued… _

~Fina Arvanthol


	6. Darwinian Debate

**Chapter 6: Darwinian Debate**

"Shut up!" Bulma shouted, slamming the refrigerator door, nearly squashing Goku's head in the process, and taking a menacing step toward the extraterrestrial prince. Her voice was so loud that everyone around her balked, watching her with both caution and curiosity. Vegeta, however, stood his ground, arms neatly folded across his chest, a smirk curling delicately on his thin, warrior lip.

"Shut the _fuck _up!" Bulma continued unabated, aiming a deadly glare directly into his dark, bottomless pupils. "I am so fucking sick of you criticizing everything about me. If it's not the way I talk, it's the way I laugh. If it's not the way I laugh, it's the way I eat. If it's not the way I eat, it's the way I walk. It's always something – my clothes, my hair, my makeup, my purse, my jewelry, my shoes, my nails – fuck, if anyone's obsessed with my appearance, it's you!"

At this final statement, Vegeta's smirk slackened and he opened his mouth, ready to spit back a defense, but Bulma was steaming far ahead of him, so much so that the room of people around them had frozen. Goku stood bewildered by the shut refrigerator. Krillin's Tupperware had long been abandoned on the kitchen counter. Dende was standing off to the side, looking timid and uncertain. Piccolo had shut his eyes, either to meditate in peace or simply control his frustration with such blatant display of human and Saiyan emotions.

"You always like to think that everything can be solved with Darwinian perfection," Bulma positively snarled. "Survival of the fittest, right? Whoever is strongest is best! The winner! The fucking _prince! _But you know what, Vegeta? You don't even fucking get what Darwin is about. It's not survival of the fucking biggest six-pack and iron bench press. It's survival of the best-able-to-adapt-to-their-environment. And, believe it or not, there are some environments where Saiyan manliness is not desirable quality for survival. Sometimes, you need technology, invention, design, creativity. You problem solve with something other than your fists. You use your head and you think."

"You think I know nothing of battle tactics, woman?" Vegeta barked back. "Fighting without thought is known as button-mashing according to your pitiful culture. What I engage in is not that, but the art of combat."

"What the fuck-ever! That's not my point," Bulma said. "I'm not saying you don't plan your moves or assess your opponent or hone your technique… But at the end of the day, it is about pure brutality, and your lifelong rivalry with Goku is perfect proof of that." Bulma flashed her teeth at him in a victorious grin.

"Bring Kakarot into this and you'll regret it," Vegeta replied in a deathly whisper.

Bulma showed no restraint in whispering back, "I already did. Try to keep up with the conversation, will you? You're in an environment where verbal skills are the key to your survival, and it saddens me to see you devoured so easily."

Now it was Vegeta's turn to lose his temper.

For a moment, the room flashed from Vegeta's Super Saiyan flare. While it was just a crackle, like a single ember popping up from a campfire, it was enough to garner a small gasp from Dende, a "woah now!" from Krillin, and a threatening grunt from Piccolo.

Neither Vegeta nor Bulma paid them any mind, though. They were squaring off with each other only. For a full minute, they stood a yard away from each other, drilling into each other's gaze, and breathing through flared nostrils. Tension gripped their every muscle, from the sharply drawn tendons in their knuckles to the tightened pectorals of their abdomen.

Bulma was so worked up she could even feel a sheen of salty sweat forming on her upper lip. She chewed on it, biting down more than she intended out of her frustration, but never once taking her eyes off of Vegeta. Those black eyes. Black fucking eyes. Nothing but blackness. She didn't think of the good times during these arguments. Only the black memories: how he abandoned her during her pregnancy, left her to give birth alone, ignored Trunks for the greater part of his infancy. She didn't care about the time he apologized or the tender moments they shared. At times like these, there was only blackness rolling along in thick, opaque sheets endlessly through her mind.

She was reading anger and disgust in all of his features, until he suddenly cracked a grin. Bulma continued to stare. He had changed mood suddenly like this before. She could only anticipate what kind of low blow was coming her way.

"Survival in all environments may be impossible, but I have mange to adapt to far more than you," he hissed with delight. "I have conquered hundreds, if not thousands of planets and even though there have been some close calls, I have always survived on my own.'

"But what about you—a trembling, weak, earthling woman with more bark than bite? Even on your own home planet you require the protection of others who are… oh, why, _stronger _than you." Vegeta smiled viciously. "Even your race recognizes the merits of physical toughness. Power! So what does that make you? An evolved earthling or a lucky collection of recessive genes?"

"Fuck this!" Bulma threw her hands up in fury. "I don't have to put up with this shit." She looked at the other people in the kitchen and exclaimed, "Hello? Would anyone like to come to my defense here? Or are you just going to let him slaughter my self-worth on the spot?"

For a brief moment, nobody spoke. Then, Krillin quietly interjected, "Well, Bulma… if we did, wouldn't we just be proving his point?"

Bulm gaped at him, then looked at Goku, who gave her a half-nod, half-shrug that said, "he's right." She didn't even bother looking t Vegeta, who she already knew was bearing a nasty, triumphant grin.

"Fine," she said. "Whatever."

She pushed past Vegeta brusquely, fuming even more as his fingertips brushed along the curve of her buttocks, but she made no move to turn around and call him out on it. He was an incorrigible asshole, and she was done paying him any attention at this point. Thoughts of fury clouded her focus as she made curt, unyielding steps down the hall and out the front door. She grabbed her purse and her car keys off the hanging shelf in the vestibule without missing a beat, and was unlocking her hover craft when she realized someone was calling her name.

"Bulma!"

Turning on her heel deftly, she shot a cold glare at her follower. It was Dende.

"What is it?" she sighed with exasperation. Never had she wanted to leave this forsaken place more, yet how could she just turn away from the Guardian of the Earth.

"Bulma, I'm so sorry," he immediately said. "Please don't take Vegeta's words to heart. They were harsh and unnecessary."

"But not untrue?" Bulma retorted, her eyes piercing with fierceness.

"No, no," Dende replied. "Look, I understand emotions are running high right now and you are justified in feeling hurt. But we have to keep in mind of the bigger issue here. Frieza's mother is going to try to revive him and we need to find a way to prevent that from happening. I need your help, Bulma."

"Dende, I have no idea how to help," Bulma said sharply. "And, frankly, Vegeta's right." She tried not to choke on her own words. "Why come to me? When have I ever been of use to anybody?"

"Please, Bulma," Dende urged. "You are being too sensitive. Perhaps Piccolo was right when he say this was not the time or place to announce this – "

"I'll say." Bulma pursed her lip.

"—regardless, the cosmos have instructed me to summon you for help, Bulma Briefs. Not Goku. Not Vegeta. Not Krillin. You."

"I. Don't. Know. What. To. Do." Bulma blinked at Dende and held her hands out, empty palms facing up.

"And I know that!" Dende rushed to say before Bulma could open her car door and make an escape. "But that doesn't mean you can't figure— "

"Look, Dende. Seriously – "

"No, listen, let's talk again at Kami's Tower," he said gently, taking hold of Bulma's hand and giving her a soft, sincere look. Bulma was still feeling defensive, but this sudden act of kindness did lower her guard. "I know you're busy, but let's plan for a week from now. You, me, a private discussion with no interrupting egos. How about that?"

"I don't know…"

"You can ask all the questions you like," Dende continued, "and perhaps in the sanctity of the heavens, I will be able to glean more information with regard to the situation."

"Bulma rubbed the bridge of her nose with her thumb and index finger. When she looked up, she looked at the sky instead of Dende, blinking away what appeared to be a welling tear. The moisture sparkled in the afternoon sun, like the shine on her hover craft and the freshly watered grass, and then seemed to retreat back into its tear duct. While she was obviously contemplating a reasonable excuse not to schedule a meeting with the young Namekian, her grim lip revealed her shortage of options. Finally, she nodded her head and shrugged.

"I guess. Alright," she said, pulling down her shades over her eyes. She peeked at Dende from behind them. "I have some time next Saturday in the morning, like around 9 o'clock. I'll fly my way over there, I guess. But no more than an hour – and if it seems like it's frigging impossible, which by the way is how it feels right now, then you're shit out of luck. I'm not helping. Those are my conditions and I'm not negotiating." She looked at Dende questioningly, daring him to challenge her.

He smiled. "That sounds fine, Bulma. I'll see you then."

Bulma made no reply. She got in her hover craft and turned on the ignition; the engine roared with life as she did and lifted slightly off the ground. She was just about to change the gear, when she saw Dende waving at her and pointing toward another approaching figure. She swore. The hover craft landed back on the ground, with more weight than was good for the struts. Bulma climbed back out of the vehicle, none too pleased.

"What now?" she cried.

"Oh my God, Bulma! What happened?"

It was ChiChi. She was looking anxious, in that motherly way of hers – her face drawn and worried, her hands either wringing each other or gripping the apron of her dress. Bulma completely forgot about all of their awkward encounters earlier and latched onto the gem of potential camaraderie.

"Get in," she said, pointing to the passenger door. "We're getting frapuccinos."

"Oh!" ChiChi looked surprised and turned to Dende with a bewildered expression on her face.

"Enjoy!" he smiled. "I like the vanilla bean ones myself." The hover craft engine was roaring again and rising above the ground. Bulma's stereo system burst to life too, with the fruity pitchy of a popular female vocalist. The window to ChiChi's side rolled down and Bulma shouted out, "C'mawn! I''m sick of this place. Let's go!"

"Alright, alright!" ChiChi scurried forward and hopped in. Before she could even buckle her seatbelt, they were up in the air and zooming far away from the Capsule Corporation campus. Dende watched them with a vague, mysterious look on his face. Before turning back inside, he muttered to himself, "What does the universe have in store for you, Bulma Briefs?"

_To be continued_

_~Fina Arvanthol_


	7. Vitalium

Chapter 7: Vitalium

A green glow lit the bar.

Not green like a summery lime, shining with a healthy brightness, nor green like a jarred olive, subdued in its hue but bursting with succulence, but rather a green of putrid lakes covered in moss and algae, filled with the stench of rotting fish and filthy overgrowth. This was the green of the warty backs of wizened toads, the scaly shells of snake skins, and the moldy look of moss on dead tree branches. This was the green of decay and wretchedness, a pale shade that reminded one of vomit and induced the urge as well. Green as sickly and sad as green can come.

Vines producing thick mucus dangled threateningly from the ceiling and along the walls. They coiled along columns and up the legs of stools and tables. Occasionally, they would even whip out and whack passerby from behind, leaving a trail of slime on the back of their necks and coats.

While the floor tiles were oddly fluorescent, pulsing with the footsteps of the patrons, the ceiling was obscured by a rising fog of smoke, cloudy and white.

As for the patrons themselves, they were diverse in their appearance. Dozens sat along the bar, which stretched out in a long rectangular space, and hundreds of others collected in tattered booths. There were squid-like creatures with multiple tentacles for arms and gooey eyes, reptilian humanoids with tails swishing behind their cloth garments, and blockish beings whose limbs might as well have been constructed with children's building blocks. At one booth, there was a group of bizarre bi-pedals whose bodies were transparent and whose insides were liquid and colorful; at another, there were raucously laughing mammalians with long, angled ears and furry faces, their teeth gleaming sharply in the bar's glow.

At the counter there was a bartender who could only be described as grotesque, since he seemed to be composed of a growth of fungus and mold, protruding at odd places all over his body and grossly speckled over his fingers and palms. His eyes were barely visible among the bulbous pimples on his face, and his lips were rimmed with several, puss-filled boils.

Yet for the hundreds of alien guests at his bar, his appearance did not make much of a difference. They were there for drink, smoke, and other visceral pleasures. When vice was provided, they need not discriminate about the provider.

As the bartender was mixing a drink, he watched a monitor above his shelves of liquor. A highly intense sporting event was on, one in which the players seemed to be trying to scald each other by racketing spontaneously combusting meteors back and forth over an electrified net. As one player got hit, he burst into a screaming, writhing mass of smoking lava. Laughter erupted from the counter.

"Bloody idiot deserved it!"

"What as he looking at? Damn ball was coming straight at him!"

"Those mother fuckers in quadrant eight deserved it! Haha!"

The bartender smirked as he finished off the drink and passed it to the recipient at the counter. As the patron took their glass, the bartender's wrist unavoidably skimmed along the surface of the counter. He turned around to rinse the flesh off in the sink. That counter was disease-ridden, regardless of how much he did to keep it clean. He wiped it down often, but it was more a measure of habit than cleanliness. With the slugs leaving trails of slime from their floppish arms and the bird folk coughing up regurgitated chips everywhere, there was simply no way to keep that place clean. The best he could do was to protect himself and make sure his own hands were clean. He might look the worst of this bunch, but he could take genuine pride in being the least filthy.

"Excuse me?"

The bartender turned around. The recipient of his freshly made drink was beckoning to him.

"Oh boy," he thought to himself. "What's this prick want?" He'd gotten everything from death threats from intoxicated, fungus-loving dinosaurs to ménage a trois invites from extraterrestrial drag queens. There was always something to be wary of when someone didn't just want to take their drink and go.

"What is it?" he grunted, giving the guest a stern look. They were entirely robed in a gray, faded cloak, so he could only see the white skin of their fingers poking out from the draped sleeves. Another bad sign. He kept his distance.

"Your name is Gilgamek Venchnok, correct?"

The bartender's eyes widened in surprise. He stood very still for a moment, ignoring the impatient summons from another customer at the other end of the counter. During that moment, the whole bar became very still for the bartender. His eyes, while obscured by his facial blemishes, glazed over and he wavered slightly. He could feel his rising pulse in the vein of his neck, and as he realized his state, he tried to control himself. He took a step closer to the counter and whispered, "What did you call me?"

"Gilgamek," the hooded person replied. Their voice was raspy, indicating age, but was neither high enough in pitch to be clearly classified as a woman's voice, nor low enough to be a man's. "You were a mercenary captain hired for special missions in the second infantry unit of the Ice-Jin Empire, directly reporting to his most holy and feared Emperor Frieza."

The bartender—or Gilgamek, as he was indeed formerly known—was now leaning directly on the counter, despite the filth he knew to be collected there. His eyes were narrowed now as he peered into the faceless cloak of his guest.

"Who are you?" he demanded, trying to sound forceful. Even he could hear the tremble in his voice, though, and was uncomfortably aware of his feeling of vulnerability.

"Consider me a well-informed friend." Gilgamek could hear the smile in the stranger's voice, but he did not feel comforted. "My name is not nearly as important as what I have come here today to share with you."

"Hey! Could I get some _service _down here, you tottering, cheese-faced waste of flesh!"

The customer sat at the end of the bar banged his fist on the counter to add emphasis to his final insult, resulting in a resounding whoop of laughter from the patrons listening in. Gilgamek, feeling simultaneously pissed and shaken, reached below the counter, grabbed a bottle of beer, and tossed it directly at the aliens head, making direct contact with his skull. As the customer eyes rolled into the back of his head and he toppled off his stool, collapsing on the floor, the patrons hooted and hollered with more laughter.

"Shut up the lot of ya!" Gilgamek barked to no effect. He didn't even care as they designed more creative insults for him. He kept his eyes on his hooded guest, while trying to ignore the feeling of his stomach churning. Without a face in that hood, how he was supposed to read this guest's expression? Was he being toyed with, or could this person be serious? And if it was the latter… Gilgamek couldn't even ponder the possibilities if that were the case.

"What do you mean you got something important to tell me?" he tried to say as calmly as possible. He was eager to appear cool and collected. He was wise enough to know that if he revealed his true level of fear, he could endanger himself more—and not knowing what kind of danger he was in, that was a risk he simply could not take. "How do you know I used to work for… him?"

The guest completely ignored his questions and continued pleasantly.

"I'm impressed by what a recovery you made since your battle on Planet Vaigon. The Imperial Guard was certain you were dead. How miraculous that you managed to return yourself to such a healthy and vibrant state!"

Gilgamek paled, as in fright, but his face contorted in anger.

"Are you suggesting I deserted?" he said, his voice dangerously low.

"On the contrary!" the customer gave a wheezy chuckle. "I think you gave your all – and by your all, I mean _your all. _Your strength, your body, your breath—your life."

Gilgamek was visibly worried. While his other customers were clearly oblivious to anything but their own conversations, his growing sense of insecurity was making him paranoid. His cloaked guest took notice.

"Why so nervous, Gilgamek? I'm not saying anything that's untrue, am I?"

The bartender made no response. For a few moments, he listened to the thumping of his heart beat in his ears. It reminded him of the war drums on the battlefield, the little boys solemnly pounding their mallets against the animal skin of their instruments, signaling for the impending demise of thousands of men. They would rise over steep hills, mountains, plateaus; they would battle under hot suns, cold moons, wet and dry skies in equal measure. Dripping with sweat and blood or dehydrated and spitting kernels of salt, he would always hear that _thump… thump… thump _as he charged forward to meet waves of violence.

He looked his guest over as these thoughts ran through his mind. Up until this time, their head was bent low over the counter. Now, they were sitting upright, yet their face was no less obscure than before. Gilgamek knew the dark magic – a concealing technique for those who did not wish to be seen. He was as suspicious and fearful now as he could be.

"Nothing you've said so far is false," he stated, peering into that dark abyss, "but it's certainly outdated information. His Emperor passed nearly a decade ago. His regime ahs since fallen. This," Gilgamek waved his hand at the unruly assembly of space travelers, "is what's left. Drunkards. Thieves. Fools. They move through the galaxy now without purpose. Leader after leader has tried to take his Emperor's place, but none have succeeded. As such, the universe is a mess. It has been for a long time. And so have I. all I live for now is to booze up these buffoons and follow the races with the small coins from my paycheck. So forgive me if hearing my long since forgotten past leaves a…" Gilgamek licked his lips with a long, warty tongue, "sour taste in my mouth."

The stranger took a turn to pause. The white fingers gripping the thin stem of their glass picked the beverage up off the counter and brought it up to the dark opening of the hood. Gilgamek watched as a pair of violet-black lips protruded, very slowly, from the shadows—a shiny glass making their presence fully known. They folded over the cusp of the glass and sipped the liquor out without making a sound. Then, they pulled back, retreating into the darkness of the hood just as slowly as they emerged. The glass came back down on the counter. Finally, the stranger spoke.

"What if I told you the return of his Emperor was not only feasible, but imminent?" they hissed. "What if I told you that you are the key to returning his Lord Frieza to all his former glory?"

Normally, Gilgamek would have laughed at such an absurd notion – just as he had laughed at an amateur pornographer from the other night inviting him to be part of his up and coming film. But it was wonder that drove him forward, for how did this mysterious figure know so much about him? And how did they manage such ancient magic to cloak themselves? They spoke with elegance and clarity where his other customers woofed and croaked. He knew there was something unique about this one, so he gave the customer a chance.

"Sounds like drunk talk," he said, "but it's idealism, which I'm not used to. I may not be an optimist, but the number of cynics that come in and outta here is sickening. They've given up all hope on things ever returning to normal, and it leaves me feeling sick.'

"I'll tell you what, though. If I could return his Emperor, Lord Frieza, back to power, I'd do it in a heartbeat. I don't care what anyone says. He was a god. He ruled the universe the only way it can be run – with force. And I was proud to serve him. Didn't matter that my face looks the way it does." Gilgamek suddenly puffed his chest out and bore a marked expression of pride. "All that mattered was my ability. I _was _a captain of the second top mercenary infantry unit of the Ice-jin army, ranked just below Captain Ginyu. Had I not valued my own team so dearly, I would have joined his. We never competed the two of us, though, because we knew we were all working toward the same goal – the reigning order of the Emperor. We would have gladly traded the madness of the galaxy for his hierarchy, and I know if Ginyu were still alive today he would agree with me in saying we'd still make the same bargain now. Freedom's a farce when this is how people use it."

And precisely at that moment, a brawl broke out between two inebriated bird folk, who were circling each other in a predatory fashion, flapping their wings in a fluster and attempting to poke each other's eyes out with their beaks.

The guest across from Gilgamek chuckled again.

"Living creatures are indeed fickle. By themselves, they're useless, powerless, and pathetic. En masse, they're witless and impulsive. But occasional rarities occur – like yourself, sir. Honorable folk who can think for themselves and follow through on thought-out plans. His Emperor was the best of them, and it is a joy to hear you still pronounce him lord."

"Don't get too cheery," Gilgamek retorted. "You act like he's already alive and breathing. But I don't see how he's back – or coming back – and I certainly don't see what I've got to do with it."

"Impatience is one of those undesirable qualities, my friend," the guest said with glee, causing Gilgamek to blush. "But not to worry, for I too am impatient – just as impatient as you to see the return of his Lord Frieza. And, as I said before, you _do _have an important role to play in his rebirth."

Gilgamek was torn between his desire for his cloaked guest's words to be true and his gut, which told him that the whole conversation was pure madness.

His customer, however, was sudden in their demonstration of impatience. Not only had all the drink from their glass mysteriously disappeared, they were now risen from their bar stool and tossing coins on the counter. Gilgamek could hardly process the speed of it all, and yet his guest was readily prepared for him.

"You are familiar with the element vitalium, I am certain." They pulled the sleeves of their cloak over their thin white fingers.

Gilgamek squawked.

"What… how… how do you…" he stuttered.

"Never mind that," the cloaked guest hissed. "I must be going now. We've already spoken too long. But if you're truly loyal to the Empire, you will meet me at Willo's Grove tomorrow morning, quarter pas three. Understood?"

Gilgamek rushed in making his mental note. "Tomorrow, Willo's Grove, quarter past three," he repeated mechanically.

"Excellent," said his guest. "I will see you then."

The bartender was just about to summon them back – was it quarter past three or quarter to three? – when he realized the figure was gone. While the bar was undoubtedly crowded, there were at least a dozen steps to the door and he hadn't seen anyone go up or down them, nor had he heard or seen the door open or shut. He looked up at the ceiling, covered in as thick of fog as ever, and sighed.

"Damn, if there's ever a time I needed a drink myself, it's now," he muttered, and proceeded to fill a frosty mug with beer.

The ruckus of the bar continued uninterrupted.

_To be continued…_

_~Fina Arvanthol_


	8. Frappucino

**Chapter 8**

Bulma and Chichi sat together at a small, artsy café in the heart of West City. It was the kind of place where local amateur poets with black lipstick and gauged ears came to moan out verses about the static culture and their drug-induced visions of utopia. There was even a brick wall, a microphone, and the standard backless, high-seated chair.

Of course, no one was performing during the day. The curtains, which were drawn shut at night for added effect during these routines, were wide open and letting in the afternoon sunlight. White tablecloths were spread over the round tables and the few waitresses on duty toured them with pots of coffee in hand. Besides Bulma and Chichi, only a few other customers were dining, and they were all absorbed in their own conversations.

Bulma was staring intently at her menu, avoiding the pointed stare that ChiChi had been giving her since she got in the car. The whole way to the café, Bulma had said nothing to her friend—not because she didn't want to tell her what was going on, but just that she wasn't really sure how to express it, and especially after that awkwardness in the kitchen earlier, well… she just wanted to make sure ChiChi didn't think she was trying to be weird or anything. _I mean, she _does _look pretty in that blouse_, Bulma mused. _What's wrong with pointing it out to her? That's what a good girlfriend does – she compliments her gal pals when they make the right fashion choices! I was just doing what any normal friend would do in that situation. _But then Bulma remembered the way ChiChi had clasped onto her hands and looked into her eyes, uttering those few simple, yet deeply penetrating words. _If anyone is beautiful, it's you_. Bulma replayed them in her mind again. Oh Kami, how sweet did they sound.

Suddenly, Bulma's thoughts did a back flip. Why didn't she feel this way when Vegeta complimented her on her looks earlier? Sure, he turned out to be his typical jackass self just a quarter of an hour ago, but that didn't explain why his morning kiss and his unusual offer of praise swept through Bulma without even tingling her passion.

She couldn't dwell on that for long, though. She was still _pissed _at the Saiyan prince. He had embarrassed her for the last time. He was insulting, rude, and totally un-gentlemanlike to her in front of all her friends. If she could have fished every thought of him at that moment out of her brain and sealed them shut in a jar to be put away on a very high shelf and not to be found again for a very long time, she would have only been too happy to do so. Vegeta didn't deserve another ounce of transmission through her neural synapses.

"What did he say?" Bulma looked up and saw ChiChi was giving her a pursed lip and an arched eyebrow. "Don't bother asking how I know that's what you're thinking about either," ChiChi added briskly. "I can tell. It was obvious from the way you were out of there that it had to be him. Only Vegeta can make you so mad that you'd leave your own party for a frappucino, albeit a good one."

Bulma sighed. "There's no hiding the truth from you, is there?"

"I' m a mother of two," ChiChi said with a small smile. "I've been trained in the art of extracting the truth."

"Well, I don't seem to be able to keep up with Trunks' fibs, so maybe I could learn a lesson or two from you."

"Yeah—but later. For now, I want to know what's going on. What the hell did that bastard say to you?"

Bulma relayed the details as objectively as possible. ChiChi already had a pretty negative opinion of Vegeta, which she knew from the many times before she had gone to her to vent and discovered that ChiChi was all too willing to condemn the Saiyan prince before she'd even gotten to the worst parts of her stories. ChiChi meant well by listening and sympathizing, but Bulma sometimes felt that ChiChi didn't think about her feelings for Vegeta. This time round though, ChiChi waited and listened to her story all the way through – then jumped to criticize him.

"He said _what_?" Chichi's face contorted with disgust. "That is absolutely untrue, Bulma, and you know that. Oh my Kami, Vegeta is _such _an ass sometimes. What a fucking ass. Seriously, you _do_ run a multi-billion dollar technology empire. You're not just some damsel in distress depending on all the manly men of the world to protect 're way smarter and way stronger than what he's painting you out to be."

"I know, I know." Bulma shook her head, sighing deeply. She scratched her head and held her head against her hand, which she often did when it just felt too heavy with all the pressures of the world. "I know I shouldn't let him get to me at this point. I know better. I've wasted so many years shouting and bickering and getting really mad, and all it does is steal away from my own energy. It's not like anything ever sinks through his thick Saiyan skull, and even if it did, he'd never let on. I guess I'm just tired, ChiChi. I'm tired of being 'the gal on the sidelines.' I'm sick of making radars and bombs and defensive gear and whatnot. I know I'm better than that. But I've always stood aside… well, because, you know." Bulma shrugged nonchalantly and looked expectantly at ChiChi to follow along.

But all ChiChi did was give Bulma a blank stare. The raven-haired woman searched her friend's blue eyes for some trace of an answer, but when she found none she said plainly, "No, I really don't. What do you mean?"

Bulma paused to sort through her thoughts, since they weren't entirely clear to her. She opened her mouth a few times with the intent of saying something, but kept closing it with the frustrating feeling that she really couldn't articulate how she felt. Or rather… she was realizing that what she felt really just didn't make sense.

"I guess," she finally summoned the words to speak, "that ever since Goku became an adult and he and Krillin stopped their official training with Master Roshi, I've felt more like a backdrop to all of the action on Earth."

"Bulma, they never would have been able to do the things they did without your help," ChicChi said kindly.

"I know, but you see? That's my point. I_ helped _them do the amazing things. I didn't do the amazing things myself."

"You want to be super muscular and fight global super villains?"

"Totally," Bulma said with a straight face, making ChiChi giggle. "Seriously though. Wait until you hear this part of the story."

And Bulma also shared with ChiChi the news of Frieza's mother and her plans to resurrect her son.

ChiChi didn't say anything for several minutes when Bulma was done. She stared solemnly in her frappucino, blinking, breathing softly. When she looked up at Bulma, her eyes shown.

"Well, here's your chance to really be amazing," ChiChi said.

"What?" Bulma replied in surprise. "You're not freaked out! Frieza might be revived and more powerful than ever –and you're all for a total newbie like me to take him on?"

"First of all, yes, I'm completely freaked out. My son nearly died at the hands of that monster, and I am not interested in finding out whether he'll be successful on his next try. _But… _if anyone is going to take him on this time, I want it to be you. I can't believe you don't see what Dende sees in you."

"What's that?" Bulma asked, thoroughly bewildered.

"_Compassion_," ChiChi said with a smile. "You're not interested in saving the world just to prove you're the strongest or to get stronger or to jack off to tough battles. You just want to show that you can protect yourself and others. You want to show that you love this world and you'll do anything to save it."

"That…" Bulma was at a loss for words. "That just can't be. That's so silly."

"Is it though?" ChiChi sipped on her frappucino. "We could have avoided the whole mess with Cell if Vegeta just hadn't been an asshole interested in seeing him in his perfect form. The same with Buu. It was Goku that wanted to see him at his worst. They say they're doing these things to protect us, and maybe they do to some extent, but there's an ulterior motive always. You're more pure than that."

"I'm not pure," Bulma shook her head. "I just want to prove that Vegeta's wrong and make him eat his words. You're making me out to be way more noble than I am. And I can't believe you're being so unrealistic. I have no chance of defeating Frieza, even if I manage to design a really awesome gun – which is pretty much all I can think that Dende wants me to do."

ChiChi smiled. "I doubt it. You're not giving yourself enough credit."

"Maybe not, but I'm still feeling like this is terrible and impossible and I just want to go to sleep and not think about any of it happening." Bulma suddenly started to cry. The emotions had been welling up in her since Dende announced the terrible news in the kitchen, but she had been doing her best to be mature and rationalize the situation and stay calm. She couldn't any longer. There was so much fear and uncertainty bubbling inside of her. What would happen to them all? What if she was the one responsible for their destruction? Could she handle not being able to prevent her own son's death? What if Frieza came back and tortured Vegeta again? Would she feel so angry at him if it turned out he was right and she couldn't save him? And what about the woman sitting right in front of her? This amazing, beautiful woman who had bore two children and persevered in the absence of the man who basically abandoned them all. Who would save her? Who would keep her safe and protected, ensure her and her children's growth and love? Bulma felt so incredibly inadequate, so completely overwhelmed, how could she not cry? "It's too much," she sobbed quietly.

ChiChi came around from the other side of the table and wrapped her arms around Bulma, who readily accepted the embrace. She could smell the ChiChi's sweet scent – a mix of wonderful baking seasonings, like cinnamon and nutmeg and vanilla. She felt the heat emanating from her warm breasts, which were so soft and pressed against her so lovingly, and she wondered why it was that Dende had not asked her to protect the Earth from the evils of the world. ChiChi, a woman who would defend her sons even if she knew she was helpless against her opponent, was a true hero.

"I don't know what you're thinking, but make sure you're thinking positive," ChiChi murmured in that low, nurturing voice of hers. "The Bulma Briefs I know isn't going to give up this easily. I know it's scary and it's tough, but we've been through terrible times before, girl…"

"One too many," Bulma continued to cry. "I'm so, so tired of this happening…"

"I know, I know," ChiChi hushed. "And I am too. But please, Bulma. Listen to me. We need you to be strong. Dende needs you to be strong. Vegeta needs you to be strong. Trunks needs you to be strong. _I _need you to be strong."

Bulma looked up at this last statement. ChiChi smiled warmly at her, a smile that made Bulma hot and tingly all over. There was something unusually beautiful about the dimples that raised in ChiChi's cheeks when she smiled like that, and the way that her eyes got smaller and twinkled.

"Promise me you'll go to Dende's and hear what he has to say," Chichi said softly.

Bulma continued to stare at her for another moment, then said, "Okay. I promise. But only for you, ChiChi."

_To be continued..._

~Fina Arvanthol


	9. Goddess vs Queen

**Chapter 9: Goddess vs. Queen**

"Ridiculous woman!" Vegeta scowled. He aimed a kick at the training bot and hit it squarely on the brass target plated on its belly. He then threw a barrage of punches at the target until the bot collapsed on the floor. Another bot appeared behind him, and he swung his leg around to knock it to the floor as well.

Ever since Bulma had left the party, Vegeta had retreated to his gravity training room for some much-needed physical therapy. There was no point in sticking around to talk to the Namekian freaks or that bald-headed moron. He really was only there to rile up the woman, and once he'd done that he could return to his real pursuit in life: becoming the strongest warrior alive.

He was distracted though – and immensely so. The words of Dende had not been completely lost on him. He heard the threat of Frieza's revival and it lingered in his mind dangerously.

How many years ago was it that he lived under the tail of that twisted tyrant, forced to do his evil bidding? How long did he suffer and toil to build an empire that would always oppress him? True, he had lashed out at Bulma, claiming his environmental adaptability was superior to hers, but even he had to acknowledge that surviving Frieza's rule was at least somewhat partially a matter of luck.

There wasn't a day in his youth that he approached that throne without fear of being strangled, shot, or brutalized.

"You are wrong, Bulma," Vegeta hissed as he knocked down a half dozen bots in a blaze of speed and fury. "I do not believe in just survival of the strongest… that brazen madness is the philosophy of fucking Frieza. We Saiyans had a code of honor! Rituals and rules for testing and proving strength! We didn't just conquer and destroy for our gain thoughtlessly. There was established protocol. And you… _stupid… woman… don't… understand…that!" _

Vegeta unleashed an immense burst of power, which radiated off of him and scorched the bots in the room until they were steaming, motionless piles of scrap metal. Sweat dripped from his brow as he panted heavily. His eyes narrowed meanly.

"You'll need me, woman," he muttered, licking a stray, salty drip of sweat from his lip. "You'll need me more than you realize. You don't know the first thing about the galaxies that lie beyond this ridiculously naïve planet. But let the Guardian of the Earth choose who he pleases to carry out his special missions. At the end of the day, you will need _me. _Because only I know the unending nightmare that is Frieza…"

* * *

Willo's Grove was located in the western hemisphere of planet Deltotum, where swampland and murky waters claimed length and width of the landscape. Rotting, leafless trees congregated closely together in knee-deep water. Sludge-like algae drifted on the surface. Fallen logs festered with maggots and fungi sprouted from every branch of every tree. It was a dark, hazy place with a thick fog and a plentiful helping of eerie-looking shadows.

Gilgamek had sloshed his way through the grimness and grime to the center of the grove, where there was a small clearing among the trees and an oddly shaped mass of fungus. Large boulders were circled around it, further drawing attention to its strange form. In some ways, the shape looked like Gilgamek, a heaping mass of imperfections with a sagging mouth and wide, gaping eye sockets. But what was most peculiar about the fungal mass was the way it had grown two outstretched limbs with distinctive looking palms. They were facing up, as if waiting to hold something or to have something placed within them.

There was a reason Gilgamek's mysterious customer had chosen this locale to meet, and Gilgamek knew it had to do with this strange fungus statue. While to passerby it might look like just an exceptionally deformed mushroom surrounded by some neatly lined rocks, but in reality this was a statue of Mycoli, the Goddess of Vitalium.

She was the symbol of life for his people, the Chytrids, and frequently made appearances in their childhood stories and folklore. She provided the dying sick man an extra decade of life. She gave the premature baby the spores she needed to breathe again. She brought the sick adult back to the prime of his youth. She was mentioned at every birth and funeral, every marital union, every rite of passage, every meal and bedtime prayer. She was their deity for everlasting life. With an endless supply of vitalium spores and dead matter to feast upon, she always managed to find a way to survive. Some species called it parasitism; his called it vivacity. And they aspired to live forever just as Goddess Mycoli did in their cultural legacy.

For all of his life, Gilgamek actually kept a necklace with a goddess charm on it hidden below his tunic. Before battle, he would grasp it in his palm to reassure himself that he would always come out alive so long as he had faith in Mycoli and the vitalium of the universe. Again now, he clutched it, wondering when his mysterious customer would arrive and what news they would have to share with him.

"So, I see you have made it."

Gilgamek was startled. He didn't see the figure approaching in the distance, nor did he hear the slosh of any swamp water. Yet there was the mysterious figure, completely cloaked and standing on the other side of the Mycoli statue.

"Where did you come from?" he gasped.

"I have many ways of travelling." He could hear the sound of a smile in the foreigner's voice. A great feeling of anxiety swelled within him.

"I am here, as you requested," he said cautiously, watching the figure without blinking to catch any sudden movement.

"A wise choice! For we have important matters to discuss. Most importantly, these."

The traveler revealed their long white, spindly hands again and produced a vial about three inches tall. Inside of it was a collection of twinkling spores, looking a bit like bottled dandelion seeds. They emitted a soft green glow.

"Vitalium," Gilgamek said in an awed, breathy voice. "Where did you… where did you get those?"

The traveler chuckled and began to recite a poem.

"_Little chytrids of the night,_

_Should you ever have a fright _

_From monsters, beasties, ghouls galore_

_Fear not, fear not, nevermore _

_For should the meanies, dark and deep_

_Try to kill you in your sleep_

_Just remember this precious rhyme_

_Sweet vitalium stops all time"_

"Impressive," Gilgamek said, his voice quivering. "Few outside of Deltotum know of the Goddess' Lullaby. We sing it to our children so that they know as Mycoli they have nothing to fear."

"Ah, but it's not just about being Chytrid people though, is it? It's about that special resource that only the Chytrid people have on planet Deltotum… that sweet vitalium, hmm?"

"It is one of our planet's rarest natural resources," Gilgamek growled, "and also one of our best kept secrets. I have been wondering, sir or madam, since our discussion at my bar how you managed to come across such private information. In fact, there's a lot I've been wondering about, and I think it is about time that you perhaps become a bit more transparent about your agenda."

"Oh ho ho! Such vinegar! And what will you do if I refuse?"

"What do you think I will do?" Gilgamek spat back.

"I imagine something delightfully violent in nature!" the foreigner cackled with glee.

"Damn right!" And at that moment Gilgamek charged forward, wielding a sword tucked in a scabbard on his back. He aimed to plunge it right through the midsection of the cloaked foreigner, but was surprised when he kept going and plunged into a tree trunk. He was quick to tug the sword back out, wood chips flying as he did, and spun around. The traveler was now sitting in the open palms of the Mycoli statue. They were clapping their hands appreciatively.

"Good show!" they squealed in their hideous voice. "I almost thought for a second that you were going to impale me. What fun!"

"WHO ARE YOU?" Gilgamek roared. "WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME, REALLY?" He swung his sword threateningly.

"Now really… that's enough now." The figure snapped their fingers and Gilgamek's sword vanished from his grip. He cried out in fear and began to scramble away. The harder he tried to run though, the more it felt like the sticky mud of the swamp was holding him back. Indeed, when he looked back, he realized he hadn't moved an inch. What he did see was the mysterious figure holding out a hand, which was blazing with mystic force, and it was then he knew that there would be no escape. He fell forward into the filthy swamp water.

"Stupid fool," the foreigner growled. "You make me seriously question our alliance."

Gilgamek had barely managed to turn himself around and did not even bother to stand himself back up. Like a helpless toddler, he sat in the murky swamp and trembled, waiting for the next action of this witch foreigner. He thought he would catch them in their bluff by attending this stupid meeting today. Now he was rehearsing the rhymes of Mycoli's Lullaby, praying the stash of vitalium in his necklace charm would be enough to sustain him if this terror chose to destroy him.

"That's better," the foreigner said. "No more of your childish pranks. All will be revealed to you in good time. After all, sweet vitalium stops all time, remember? Ho ho ho!"

Gilgamek didn't even grunt. He kept his eyes shut and waited for the inevitable blow.

"Oh, I'm not going to kill you, Gilgamek Venchnok! I need you, remember? I just need you to play a little more kindly with me. I'm a delicate creature, after all."

Sweating profusely, Gilgamek forced himself to open his eyes. The mysterious figure had since descended from their seat on the goddess statue and was now caressing his bulbous face with a cold, chapped hand. Gilgamek shivered in disgust, and despite his desire to dart away, made not a move. The foreigner giggled.

"I suppose it _is _only fair if I share my true identity with you. Even if you are too stupid to have figured it out on your own by now. I would say that your propensity for research is something to be desired, though. Keep those eyes open, you disgusting man. I want you to savor this view for all its worth."

Gilgamek did as he was told, not out of obedience so much out of uncertainty of where else to look or what else to do.

There was a great flash and then a shattering sound. The swamp was suddenly filled with a blinding light, which started as a small orb and then burst forth in millions of white, glowing rays. Gilgamek shielded his eyes with his hand when closing his eyes was not enough to prevent the light from burning through and stinging his pupils. Even after the light had dissipated, it was a moment before the motley-colored circles passed from Gilgamek's vision and he could see the full figure that was presented before him.

No less than six feet tall and slender and shapely as a ballerina, a chalk-colored and elegant woman stood before him. She was cloaked in silky, regal robes of dark indigo that hung loosely from her shoulders. Along her clavicle bone and holding her robes together was an intricately carved [noun], crafted in a glittering white gold. The same precious metal was welded into vine-like bangles along her wrists and biceps. She also wore lustrous body armor that shielded her soft, but shapely breasts and accentuated the curve of her hips and her waist. It cut off along the thigh where her pale white flesh showed. She wore Grecian gladiator sandals with silver straps bound round her calves and carried a scepter that was almost as tall as she.

It was her face though, which astonished Gilgamek the most-because past those delicate, high cheek bones and that subtly angled chin, he saw eyes that he could never have forgotten. Eyes that simmered with the red of charred coals, rather than the burst of hot flame. Eyes that glimmered with the subdued shine of freshly spilled blood. Eyes of great foreboding. Eyes that witnessed some of the foulest horrors of the universe. Eyes that watched crimes of unparalleled atrocity occur. Eyes that sought out power, power, and more power.

They were the same eyes of him… _Lord Frieza._

"Y-y-you… you are him… I mean, his… h-his…"

"Beautiful daughter?" the woman suggested with an arched brow and a sly smile. "I'm afraid not, but I appreciate the compliment, my dear. Guess again."

"L-lady Cold!" Gilgamek gasped with wonder. "I never… _never _thought I'd see the day when I set eyes on your grace. Oh your highness…"

Gilgamek tumbled forward and bowed deeply, scrambling forward to kiss the lady's feet, but she promptly splashed him in the face with the flick of her sandal.

"Back minion," she said sweetly. "Do you think I am so forgiving, when only just moments ago you brandished a blade against me?"

"Forgive me your highness!" Gilgamek cried out, flailing his arms. "I was out of my mind, weak and confused. I would never have guessed it was your beauteous grace underneath all those robes. I was a fool, an idiot, a buffoon… forgive me, forgive me please!"

"We shall see about that," Lady Cold said coolly. "I do not easily forgive, and your crime would have amounted to nothing short of treason if you were fully aware of my identity. But since you were not… and since I still have purpose for you, perhaps we can work out a plan for you to regain your honor?"

"Oh, Lady Cold... you are as merciful as they say. A-a-and it is you! You!" Gilgamek started sputtering with excitement. "_You _are the one who wants to bring back his Lord Frieza. Of course! Of course! It all makes sense now. Oh my queen! I will gladly serve you to revive his almighty emperor! Please, tell me how I can be of service and I will do all that is in my power to assist you."

"Your compliance is greatly appreciated," Lady Cold cooed. "I should like to return to my original question, if you are now willing to oblige me."

"Yes, yes, of course my queen! How stupid I was before… how moronic… I was such a foolish…"

"Enough!" Lady Cold rapped her scepter on one of the nearby rocks and her voice, booming and low, echoed through the swamp. "A yes or a no will do Gilgamek, unless I specifically request for further elaboration. Do I make myself clear?'

"Yes, m'Lady," Gilgamek meekly replied.

"Good." Lady Cold smiled coldly. She turned to the statue of Mycoli, looking her up and down.

"Tell me, Gilgamek… who is fairer? Your mushroom goddess or myself?"

Gilgamek gulped. "My Lady, you are undoubtedly fair – a woman of unparalleled beauty! No queen can compare."

"Gilgamek, is that what I asked you?"

"T'is a grave sin, Lady Cold, to compare her Goddess Mycoli to…"

"GILGAMEK, IS THAT WHAT I ASKED YOU?"

Suddenly, Lady Cold aimed her scepter at Gilgamek and a shot of electricity burst forth, devouring Gilgamek's warty flesh with its hot charge of current. He shook and wailed as the subatomic particles snapped viciously along his skin, feeling the friction between them burn. It was pure, unbridled agony. When Lady Cold ended the spell, he collapsed back in the swamp and dry heaved.

Lady Cold sneered in disgust and waited a moment for the fat blob of fungus to compose himself. She tapped her scepter impatiently while waiting for him to sit back up and stop wavering. When he was able to look at her, albeit through droopy lidded eyes, she repeated her question.

"Let's try that again, Gilgamek. Who is fairer? This disgusting lump of mold, or your High Empress Lady Cold?"

Gilgamek choked back a sob and murmured a response while looking down.

"Shall we try the electricity again, my dear?"

"You are fairest, m'Lady." Gilgamek wished he could eat the words back up as soon as he said them. He promptly vomited into the swamp pool. In a split second, he had betrayed his god of childhood – something he had not even done for his Lord Frieza. But then again, he could share his plate between a god and a goddess, where it was impossible for two goddesses to rein without rivalry.

"Ah, excellent. Just the words I needed to boost my confidence. And now, you shall tell me about these treasures."

Lady Cold dangled the vial of vitalium between her thumb and fore finger. Gilgamek peered at the floating elements through weary, watery eyes and paused. This was his final fork in the road. He could either betray the queen now and die a surely gruesome death at the hand of her scepter, thus forced to face the unknowns of the after life, or he could share the secrets of his people with her, long held secrets that he had no right to divulge, and prepare for the return of a tyrant who would bring order and oppression in equal measure to the universe.

Gilgamek chose the known over the unknown, tempered fear over immeasurable terror.

In less than fifteen minutes, he had shared with Lady Cold all the details of vitalium's properties and the possibility they created for resurrection.

_To be continued _

_~Fina Arvanthol  
_


End file.
